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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459343">Custos Alis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Guardian Angel Tony Stark, Guardian Angels, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Happy Ending, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Injury, Time Skips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:40:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,069</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He dies.<br/>He wakes.<br/>His purpose has changed. For a lifetime of destruction, death and pain he must protect, cherish and keep safe.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Character death encompasses Tony's death in the first chapter and non-main deaths in the second chapter. Dependant on your location, parts of this fic may encompass the 'underage' tag per the legal age of consent in your area.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker/Harry Osborne (Brief), Peter Parker/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Starker and More Discord Challenges</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Salvation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/gifts">Moransroar</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My fill for the Discord group challenge.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspiration for Tony's wings <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1c/cb/ee/1ccbee39fb183d335905df3253c69867.jpg">here</a> and <a href="https://www.voltcafe.com/wp-content/uploads/Kate_MccGwire_Splice-detail-11.jpg">here.</a><br/>The Guardian is inspired by the concept of an Angel's true form in the TV show <i>Supernatural</i> and very loosely by The Mirror from <i>Snow White and The Huntsman.</i><br/>Purgatory/The Empty is inspired by the world of the Soul Stone.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They were right. </p><p>Hell is full of fire. </p><p>Fire. Screaming. The acrid scent of smoke and death. Pain like nothing ever felt before. Burning, encompassing, <em>devouring</em>. The heat. He barely even noticed the heat through the searing pain. Blood didn't taste like copper - They always got that wrong. It <em>smelt</em> like copper. It tasted like iron. Rich and cloying on his tongue, the last thing he would ever taste. Or...Maybe it would be the ash, fluttering down like snowfall. It made him think of Siberia, of the ski trip he took three years before. It had been crisp, cool, peaceful in those mountains. </p><p>He blinked through the grey flakes caught on his lashes and tried hard not to think about how some of it was human. He dared not look to his left again. Only five minutes ago, the grotesque, glistening mound of flesh there had been a twenty-three year old man with a bright, lopsided smile and a girlfriend. </p><p>Breathing hurt. He longed to stop. </p><p>
  <em>Pepper. </em>
</p><p>Red. Heat. What did they say about redheads? Fiery. Pepper knew nothing of fire. Neither had Tony. Not until now. Those cosy nights in front of the fire. All those mishaps in the lab. That had been fire. This was <em>Hellfire</em>. </p><p>Hell. And he wasn't even dead yet. </p><p>He looked back up at the sky. Those were his two options; the ashen, blurred darkness above him or the wasteland expanse to hie right. The warped, smoking husks that were once armoured trucks. Burnt out shells, broken and ripped open and useless. It was one of those that pinned him now, five-thousand pounds or so he figured, stopped only from cleaving him straight in half by a scrabble of rocks. As it was, it had only crushed his hips and his lower lips, pulverising his internal organs. The car wasn't even what bothered him the most. The pain had become so blinding down there it was numb. </p><p>His chest. </p><p>Or...What had been his chest. Now it was a gaping, bloody hole, full of glinting metal and glistening blood. He wanted to laugh, but his muscles didn't work. They'd always called him heartless. Now, he supposed, it was true. The Merchant of Death. The Dark God. Could the Reaper himself be killed? If Tony truly was the Merchant, the answer was yes. He wondered what catchy headline they'd make of it. His own missiles blowing him up. Would it be catchy? Snarky? Would they mourn him, or would they celebrate the end of his reign? Pepper would mourn, he knew that much. She rarely spoke on his inventions, the cost of his name, but she loved him. He knew she loved him. </p><p>He wondered how long it would be before she moved on. Knowing Pepper, she would orderly follow the five stages of grief. She'd devote herself to the company first - It was hers now, anyway. He'd made sure of that. All 60% of his shares were now in her name. Or...Would be, the moment that they declared him dead. </p><p>He blanched. </p><p>God, would they ever even find his body? He was in the middle of nowhere, Afghanistan. Looters and vultures would likely be the only thing that found him. </p><p>He could feel it, now. The hazy pull. It was kind of like falling asleep; heavy headed, tired. He almost didn't even register the pain anymore. He knew what that meant - Endorphins were flooding his body, over-riding his nerve endings. He was dying. Or...<em>Really</em> dying, now. </p><p>He didn't want to go. </p><p>The sky was ashen. Dark. When he blinked it was clear, crisp, blue. Tiny flakes of snow drifted down slowly, peacefully. Coated his cheeks, though he couldn't feel the cold. It was...Nice. He breathed out, wet and rattling. Maybe if he just let himself rest. Maybe just for a moment. Then he could figure this out. He'd have the energy to think of something. Maybe if he could get out from under the car...</p><p>He let his eyes close. </p><p>
  
</p><p>He woke up. </p><p>That in an of itself was <em>wrong</em>. He sucked in a breath, felt it glide cool and easy through his lungs, effortless. It revitalised him, it spread through his every fibre and his eyes focused on a red, stormy sky. For a brief moment he thought he was back there, back in the dirt and dust, awake maybe just in time to see Hellfire rain upon him like Heaven's wrath. </p><p>But it was silent. </p><p>Water lapped at his jaw, stirred into life by the heaving of his chest as he stared up at that broiling, rolling sky. Reds and oranges and golds bled into an artwork of fury, unmoving and still above him. The water was cool around his fingertips, nudging at him, hinting that he was <em>alive</em>. </p><p>He felt so heavy. </p><p>He let his head loll to the side, cheek sinking into the water as he looked dully to his right. The sky stretched on endlessly, with no breaks or give in the inferno colour. The water, a crystal reflection of the sky, stretched on equally as infinitely, broken only by the the whispers of ripples where he moved. He stared across it for some time, blank and void of emotion. Was this it? Was this Hell? Some first level, maybe? Or was this Purgatory, that in-between No Man's Land where he was bound to sit for eternity, with nothing and no-one, just water and red sky. He turned his face skyward again, pulled in a slow, even breath, just to feel the effortless, painless way his chest rose and fell. </p><p>He was hit with the sudden urge to sit up, crushing him from the inside out and he gasped, sucking in a croaked breath as he gathered his arms and surged upwards. The heavy feeling pulled at him, threatening to drag him back down, like something was weighted to the backs of his shoulders. He took a shuddering breath and strained against the feeling, heard the water around him slosh and splash as something rose from it, sending a tidal wave of ripples and a cascade of rainfall around him. He jerked his head to the side and stared, numb, as from a waterfall cascade a large, sculpted wing rose like some resurrected deity, stretching out towards the endless horizon. </p><p>His breath hitched and the wing - <em>Wings</em>, because he could feel the heft across the backs of his shoulders, shuddered like a sentient being. The steady plopping of the water falling from them drowned out the wheeze of his breathing as he watched the appendage flex and twitch like a newborn discovering it was quite suddenly alive. He could feel the tremor all the way through his back, down his spine, and he let his head fall forwards as he tried to get his sluggish brain to work. He considered, briefly, all the possibilities, cycling through them until the world around him seemed to suddenly <em>charge</em>, static and too bright, electricity making his teeth chatter as he squinted against the white-gold light in front of him that grew and grew until he had to lift a hand from the water around him, covering his eyes against it. </p><p>Every nerve in his body felt jittery and alight, trembling as a high-pitched ringing filled his ears, rattling his head until he felt it might explode. His enter body tensed and surged with energy, and as suddenly as the feeling came it settled like the aftermath of a storm, gone but not forgotten, leaving behind only a bright but tolerable glow that coaxed him to look over his bare arm. He blinked in surprise, looking down at himself. </p><p>He hadn't even realised he was naked. </p><p>
  <em>Anthony Edward Stark. </em>
</p><p>It was a voice, but...Not a voice. It had no discernible identity to it, just white sound that somehow formed coherent words that whispered through his head. He moved his arm to rub at his temple, looking weakly up at the glowing figure before him. It was tall, ten foot at the least, and broad. It was ethereal and mostly light, but it had faces. Faces, because there were six, forming a ring that hovered above what might be smooth, broad shoulders. Each face pointed in a different direction, details barely perceptible as he stared. One had what could be no less than a hundred eyes on the face of a beast he had no name for. Another had teeth that sprouted in different directions, dripping with liquid gold. Above those was a tilted ring of gold light unobscured by the six wings that protruded from its body. </p><p>It seemed to wear robes, but he couldn't tell. It all just seemed to be light, given the bare amount of structure that allowed it to take on shape and form. What looked like liquid fabric fell from the broad figure and into the water where it stood, the barest hint of arms clasped at its abdomen like a Priest visible, four in all. Tony had to remind himself to breathe as he stared at it. The foremost face was blank, round at the top and tapering off into the same hint of draped fabric. It was eerie, unnatural. It stared at him without eyes. </p><p>
  <em>I have a thousand eyes, and I see all. I see you. </em>
</p><p>He shuddered, pressing his heel against his head as that <em>sound</em> flowed through him again, shaking his head as though that would work to shake the voice right out of him. His tongue, though it felt heavy and unwilling, worked when he dared to try and speak. "What are you?" </p><p>
  <em>I am The Guardian. The Keeper. The One. I have a hundred names, and none. </em>
</p><p>The foremost face tilted. The beast-like one licked its gaping maw. </p><p>
  <em>I am unto you, salvation. You are dead, and alive. </em>
</p><p>A time ago, he'd have made a quip about being Schrödinger's man. Now, he sat void and unsure, floating somewhere between existing and not. Dead and alive. "Where am I?" </p><p>
  <em>The In-Between. The Void. The Empty. Of your kind, most may call it Purgatory. </em>
</p><p>There was no satisfaction in having one of his assumptions validated. No relief at the knowledge. At his side the wings drooped, wilting like they'd run out of energy, sinking back into the mirror-like water slowly. It gave him more questions than answers but he couldn't bring himself to ask them. He <em>felt</em> empty. Like a shell of his own body; no character, no energy or personality. Just...There. Existing, somewhere outside of the life he knew. Outside of anything and everything familiar. </p><p>
  <em>You have been given purpose, Anthony. Salvation from your careless life of death and destruction. You will repent for the lives you claimed as yours to take. You will atone for sorrows you reaped from so many sowed seeds. </em>
</p><p>It was the question he had longed to ask since The Guardian had answered his first, but the one he dreaded to ask the most. He forced his lips to part, backed the words with a fortifying breath. It came out weak, near a whisper. </p><p>
  <em>"What am I?" </em>
</p><p>The six wings rose and spread slightly, like arms spreading in gesture. The Guardian's form rippled and moved, the four ghost-like shapes of arms spreading in tandem. </p><p>
  <em>One of us. You are me, and I am you. One in the same. </em>
</p><p>"I don't look like you" he rasped, shaking his head. He couldn't. He <em>wouldn't</em>. He didn't even know what The Guardian was. For all he knew, he knew nothing. He couldn't have six faces, six wings, four arms. Couldn't exist in no solid state, a <em>something</em> not a <em>someone</em>. </p><p>
  <em>Not as you are now. Not for this purpose. In time, perhaps. This is the form you desire to see. Vanity and familiarity sculpt you like clay. We serve the same purpose. You will guide and protect. You will cherish and adore. All that you were robbed of and all that you stole in your past life. Salvation. </em>
</p><p>He didn't dare ask from what. With a creeping sense of foreboding, he knew anyway. He'd thought the desert was Hell; but this, this being, this vast and barren land, this was what stopped him from seeing <em>true</em> Hell. He felt suddenly so tired, though it was purely the term in emotional concept. Physically, he felt...Nothing. The cool of the water, the pumping of his heart in his chest. The weight of his wings. But no exhaustion, no pain. His legs, when he looked down at them, were pristine and void of blood or damage. He looked as he had the morning he'd flown out to Afghanistan, and not a glimpse of what he'd looked like when he died. </p><p>"I don't understand" he plead, looking back up at the figure. "I <em>died</em>. I'm dead. I don't-- I don't know if any of this is <em>real</em>. I don't know what you want me to do". </p><p>Between one blink and the next, The Guardian stood right before him, one shapeless hand reaching for him. It held no pressure, no form when it touched his forehead, and what followed was inexplicable. His head snapped back on a gasp, staring upwards, lips parted as his eyes clouded over, glossing black an empty with shattered fragments of light dancing in the liquid darkness like a galaxy. An infinite series of images, snippets of life and existence. Microbes in their most basic form, people, learning to walk for the first time. Guardians, endless amounts of them, roaming, touching, sculpting. Energy, pure and raw. The cosmos, space far beyond anything he had ever seen. A single breeze that carried a scent that encouraged a quadruped beast to flee from its predator. A dream that encouraged the first man to make pigment. </p><p>He understood. </p><p>The whispered glimpses of Guardians that humans had incorporated into art for centuries. An infinite amount of acts that sculpted time and history. Life, everywhere, on planes of existence and Universes that he didn't recognise. Influence and control, all controlling and guiding like the crew of a theatre. It cut off like a film running out of reel and he stared up into the roaring sky, struck lifeless and into reverie by all he'd witnessed. When he finally came back to himself he looked forwards. The Guardian stood where he had before, a few mere paces from his heels, waiting. </p><p>
  <em>Now, you understand. </em>
</p><p>He nodded. He couldn't describe how he knew, much less <em>what</em> he knew, but it fell into place like a puzzle piece, learned as easily as reading instructions. He knew what he could do, in this new form. What he could influence, create, control. He was an artist on an ethereal form, an indefinite canvas at his fingertips. He could decide where the scale tipped, what eyes saw, which leaf fell from which tree. It was <em>power</em> in its purest, largest form, a power he could have only ever <em>dreamed</em> of as a mere moral, as a man. His heart thundered in his chest and he knew it was because subconsciously, he was <em>making</em> it. Sculpting this form into Tony Stark because that was what he was most comfortable with, that was what he saw himself as. Eight fingers and two thumbs, carefully trimmed facial hair, a personality crafted like a defence wall. </p><p>A sound seeped through The Empty. </p><p>It was far away, faint. It flowed like mist, unobtrusive and melodic. A gentle, steady thumping. The Guardian seemed tog low brighter. </p><p>
  <em>It is time. </em>
</p><p>Anticipation crawled up his spine, a steady pulling sensation that drew him towards it. It belonged to him. It called to him. Ignited every atom, every fragment of energy that crafted him. He didn't know what it was, though a part of him felt like it did, and he forced himself to move, gathering himself, rising from the water slowly. It ran down his hips, the backs of his thighs, trickled down his calves as he drew himself to stand straight. He longed to follow the sound, longed to understand why he felt that way. "What is that?" He asked quietly, looking around. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere, had no source in this barren place. </p><p>
  <em>Life. </em>
</p><p>The Guardian's wings rose and spread, and from one moment to the next The Empty became a neonatal ward, three rows of tiny, wheeled cribs, each containing a tiny newborn baby. They were stood in the midst of the room, surrounded by the cribs, and instinct drove him to approach the topmost one on the right. Within it a small newborn lay, awake but silent. It was swathed in a rich blue blanket, tiny arms swaddled, and its honey-shaded eyes fixed on him, tiny mouth opening and closing on soft little gurgles. Tony felt...Whole, staring down at it, almost completely forgot about the presence of The Guardian at his side. </p><p>As Tony Stark, he'd convinced himself he didn't want a family. He was young, a billionaire. CEO of a family name company, partying with coke and whores on a weekly basis. He'd been free, orderless, could get his cock wet wherever he wanted, whenever. He lived the playboy CEO lifestyle, Malibu one weekend and London the next. He'd <em>decided</em> he didn't want a family. </p><p>He was terrified of having a family. Of wanting a family. </p><p>Terrified he'd turn out like Howard. Terrified he'd fuck it up. He'd fled to a Doctor and got a vasectomy the moment he could. Couldn't shake the idea that maybe the condom would break one night or the woman's birth control would fail and nine months later she'd be at his door with a baby. </p><p>Now. Looking at this tiny child, this baby that wasn't even his, he felt <em>complete</em>. This innocent little life form, a mere <em>speck</em> in the Universe was suddenly all that mattered to him. Like a moth to a porch light he was drawn, reaching out slowly to touch its soft little head. The hair there was dark, thick already. Dark hair, dark eyes. Tony looked up, caught sight of himself in the reflection of the glass viewing window. Dark hair, dark eyes. As he stared, a couple walked into view and he froze, but at his side, The Guardian did not move. </p><p>
  <em>They look, but they do not see. </em>
</p><p>Tony turned to look at the faceless figure, then back down at the babe, which lay serene and quiet. Were babies supposed to be this quiet? Every baby he'd met or seen on TV had been loud. A screaming ball of senseless fury that no amount of hip-jiggling or soothing words would temper. Behind them a baby chortled and gurgled to itself as it lay there, wriggling and exploring this new state of existence. But this one, his baby, it just lay there, gaping up at him. </p><p>"Does it see us? Is it...Okay? Its so quiet" Tony breathed, tracing a chubby, soft cheek with his fingertip. </p><p>
  <em>He sees. He will not cry. Not until they take him home, when a car horn will awake his slumber. </em>
</p><p>"You can...You know the future? His future?" </p><p>
  <em>I see. </em>
</p><p>The Guardian reached out with a shapeless hand, passing it silently over the babe. Its head inclined, and Tony reached out without thinking, gathering the tiny child up carefully in his arms, cradling it to his chest. The child snuffled, but made no other sound as Tony held him. He knew the couple staring adoringly at their own babe through the glass would see nothing. The baby was a small weight in his arms, barely anything, a pure and innocent spark. Tony wondered if this is what parents felt, when holding their child. If they could sense that beautiful clean slate of life, freshly carved, untouched and untainted. If they felt this...Bond. Drawing him in, enveloping him in this sense of warmth and belonging.</p><p>"Peter" he breathed, and it was <em>right. </em>The baby blinked at him sleepily, and Tony looked up at The Guardian. "Why...Is this my purpose? Him? What am I supposed to do?" He asked. He felt raw and fragile, suddenly exposed and nervous. He couldn't look after a baby, man or...Whatever he was now. He'd never done that before. And whatever form he was, he still had Howard's upbringing. He might not be Tony Stark anymore, but he still had Tony Stark's life as his only one lived so far. Still had all those memories, all those fucked up connections between love and family. He couldn't do that to someone else. Much less a child that wasn't even his. </p><p>
  <em>He is yours. Yours to keep safe. Yours to teach. To learn from. You will protect him and watch over him. He has a purpose. </em>
</p><p>A Guardian Angel. The thought was blithe and mirthless, though Tony knew there was humour in it somewhere. Him, the protector of someone. The Merchant of Death to a Guardian Angel. A killer to a keeper of life. </p><p>He looked down. </p><p>He couldn't imagine hurting Peter. Couldn't imagine letting any harm come to him at all. Even a scraped knee seemed unfathomable. "Do they all have...One of us?" Tony asked after a moment, looking around at the other babies. Fat ones and little ones, peachy babes and babes with skin like obsidian. </p><p>
  <em>Some. Not all. </em>
</p><p>Tony nodded once, taking a fortifying breath as he looked back down at Peter. </p><p>"How?" He choked out, running his palm over that soft mop of hair. "How can I do it? How can I...I'm not...Why?" </p><p>
  <em>You will not fail, Anthony. </em>
</p><p>"How do I protect him? How do I keep him safe?" </p><p>
  <em>You cannot protect him from all things. You will know when to tip the scale, and when to leave nature to its own balance. </em>
</p><p>Tony was struck suddenly with the reminder of why he was here. <em>He has a purpose. </em>The sudden image of Peter meeting the same grisly end, of being alive only to fulfil some sort of mystical plotline. How long would Peter live? What was his purpose? How would he die? He wanted to ask, but for all The Guardian had answered him thus far, he felt he would not receive an answer to this. When he looked up again, that featureless head tipped. </p><p>
  <em>You will understand. You will know. </em>
</p><p>He moved carefully, slowly, setting the babe back down on the soft bedding. He ached all over suddenly. His wings felt too heavy, leaden on the backs of his shoulders, and all his energy left him at once. He couldn't do it. He couldn't ruin someone else. He couldn't be another Howard. </p><p>Something touched his hand. </p><p>Peter had wriggled free of his blanket, one tiny hand extended, clutched tight around his pinky finger where he'd set his hand down on the edge of the crib. The baby looked at him from under comically long lashes, eyes wide and round, fixed on him with blind trust. Tony could feel his wings quiver behind him, shaking where his hands refused to. </p><p>"I'll do it". </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter was the perfect baby. </p><p>The Guardian had been right. Peter had stayed sleepy and quiet for the two days he and his parents remained at St. Bonaventure's Hospital. He giggled and chortled when his parents entertained him and he slept whenever he wasn't being toyed with or fed. Tony stayed at his side for all of it, never bored, watching from a corner or right there, amongst everyone, present but unnoticed. Nobody could see him, nobody but Peter. Tony didn't know how he automatically knew how to control who could and couldn't see him, but he did. Did as easy as he knew how to breathe. The Guardian had left him some time after Tony had first met his new charge with cryptic words and the promise that all Tony would need to do is will for help, and The Guardian would come to assist. </p><p>Now, stood on the sidewalk and watching Mary and Richard Parker cautiously easing their bundle of joy into the car, Tony jerked at the sudden blast of a car horn, turning his head to see where a cab had emergency braked to avoid a careless old lady who hadn't looked before crossing. Almost immediately a soft, near tentative wail came from the car, as though Peter wasn't even sure that he <em>could</em> cry. Tony listened to it for a few seconds, surprised by the sound. It was high and breathy. Tony suddenly wondered if Peter had cried when he'd been born. </p><p>A single flap of his wings and he was sat in the backseat of the car, watching as Richard, a first time Dad, tried valiantly to shush his child. Richard was a good man; work driven but impossibly soft with his wife and his child. He called Peter his <em>little Teddy </em>and fretted endlessly over whether Peter was too warm or too chilly and if it was too early to start saving for a college fund. Tony waited for several moments, watched as Mary tried to quiet the baby to no avail, leaning around from the passenger seat, her voice low and soothing. Peter's little head turned, finding Tony, and one chubby, stumpy little hand flailed for him insistently. </p><p>Tony hesitated, then reached out, cautiously allowing those tiny fingers to squeeze his thumb. For a small baby, Peter had a strong grip, and Tony let himself feel the pressure, the weird sensation of too-soft nails scraping along his skin. They wouldn't harden for several more days, he knew. Pepper had talked about children a lot, especially when her friend Mary-Anne had a baby. Peter's wails died to half-hearted fussing, aborted whimpers that Tony itched to soothe. Without thinking he shifted, unfurling his left wing to curl it around the seat where Peter lay. Where Tony sat on the seat, his wing moved through the vehicle, unbound by the human laws of physics and solid matter. Peter's whimpers died entirely as he watched it, little mouth open wide as he writhed. </p><p>Tony followed his gaze, eyeing the feathers. In the two days that had passed he'd come to terms with his new form, with the wings that lay behind him heavy and weightless both. He knew it was vain to say, but they were beautiful things. Softer than any material he'd ever touched before. They were the size of cars each, though he learned they could be bigger. Each feather was an inky black, fluffy and soft, unlike any bird he had ever seen. Light blue seemed to swirl amongst the black, like a blue tiger's eye gemstone. Here and there tendril-wisps of blue seemed to move through them like light. The feathers at the top were small, puffy like baby owl feathers. They tapered off into stronger ones, pointed like arrows at the bottom. The largest feathers were the ones that formed a sharp point at the end of each wing. Those were the bluest, like they'd been dipped in paint. </p><p>Peter was quiet for the rest of the journey, which perplexed the Parker's as much as it relieved them. </p><p>"He looks like he's holding something" Richard announced when they pulled up outside a stately looking detached home, leaning into the back seats through the open door. He had his hands on his hips and a frown, eyes flicking from where his sleeping baby drooled, to where he clutched at thin air. Tony had watched him fall asleep but hadn't had the heart to pull his hand away. </p><p>"As much as I adore staring at our darling child, my dear, I have six stitches and a crushed bladder. I'd quite like to get inside" Mary coaxed from where she stood at the base of the porch, leaning on one tall, carved pillar as she looked at her husband with annoyed fondness. Tony's mouth curved a little, sadness tinging his smile. He wondered what Howard and Maria had been like, when he was born. Disinterested and unbothered, perhaps. Wondering how soon they could drink or fuck again. Impatient for the help to take their screaming child away, maybe. </p><p>Richard began to unbuckle the baby seat and Tony allowed his wings to move, one sturdy, soundless beat taking him from the car to the porch as Richard swore quietly and wrestled with a buckle. As Tony looked up at the neat home he took pity on the man, a twitch of his fingers releasing the sticky mechanism from where it had jammed. </p><p>The Parker household was nice. Tony dimly recognised the outskirts of Manhattan, somewhere near the South. The porch was painted a soft eggshell blue, chipped in some places. Flower boxes lined it, the soil a little dry from several days' neglect. A welcome mat lay new with the tag still on and through the foremost window he could see a lounge, filled with books and comfortable, worn couches. He stepped aside out of habit as Mary approached the door, watching tenderly as her husband introduced the babe to each part of the house. </p><p>"This is the porch. Not that you know that yet. The flowers over there are Gardenias, a pain to keep alive but pretty. This is a welcome mat. You wipe your shoes on it. Your Aunt May bought us this the other week. Oh, and those are our neighbours over there. On the left we have-"</p><p>"Richard" Mary reminded him patiently, and her husband flushed but scurried to the front door, juggling the carrier and his keys. Tony blinked, and waited for them inside the kitchen. It was homely, warm in a way the kitchen at the Stark Manor had never been, personal in a way his own at the Tower had never been aside from whiskey bottles and lab tools in the kitchen sink. Small photographs lined the walls, a mug of forgotten coffee sat old and pungent on the table. Tony stared at it forlornly, missing quite suddenly the taste and simplicity of coffee. What had his last coffee been? That cup of shitty airport coffee when he'd landed in Afghanistan. It had been bland and tasteless, but the caffeine had woken him up. </p><p>Several hours later, Tony drew his wings tight against his back, warm and heavy as as he listened to Richard read. Mary had retired early for the night, reluctant to leave her little cherub but worn out from the aftermath of childbirth. Richard, wide awake, had settled in the lounge with Peter nestled in a mobile crib in front of where he lay. Richard's voice was soothing and low as he read from a physics thesis, pausing on almost every other word to explain to Peter what each term meant. Tony's own head lolled and his heart ached as he watched. It was a life he could have only dreamed of for Peter. Two caring parents, a wonderful household. </p><p>He didn't know if he could fall asleep, but he closed his eyes anyway. And he must've, or something close to sleeping, because he opened them again to Peter's quiet fussing, the barest, hinting threat of crying. He pushed himself up from the couch, wings trailing behind him as he approached the cradle. Richard was sprawled face-down into the couch cushions, glasses bent at a strange angle, book fallen to the floor. It seemed his reading had lulled all three of them to sleep. Tony gave a small smile and leaned over the cradle, looking down at where Peter's tiny brows had pulled together. His little mouth was pursed on the beginnings of a wail, and Tony stooped, blowing over his face gently. </p><p>"Hello, little thing" he cooed, watching as Peter turned towards the noise with a soft mewl. "You ought to be sleeping" he chastised softly, moving his wings forwards, curving them around the crib and close in, so Peter was sealed away safe from the outside world. Tony's fingers twitched and a soft blue glow began to emanate within the little bubble of space, illuminating just enough that Peter's sleepy, squinty little eyes could see him. "There we are, handsome" Tony shushed him, reaching inside the cradle to gently take one of Peter's hands. </p><p>"Go to sleep, sweet thing. Another hour. Just one more" he coaxed, and watched with blooming warmth as Peter's lashes dipped down, down, before his eyes closed. Peter gave him the requested hour, sleeping soundly until Mary came shuffling down the stairs to answer his wails for a four-am feed. Tony averted his eyes out of politeness, perusing their book collection as Mary juggled Peter in order to wrestle her husband's warped glasses from under his cheek. They had romance novels and science books, fiction and autobiographies and more books on babies and parenting than Tony had mind to count. </p><p>He smiled, wings folding in neatly behind himself. Peter was gonna grow up just fine. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Tony turned the page of his book curiously, <em>Toddlers and the Terrible Twos</em> balanced on his knee as he read. </p><p>He looked over the rim of the book, watching from across the kitchen table as Peter giggled and threw his head to the side, vehemently denying another mouthful of mushed peas between spurts of giggles. Peter was a week of being two now, growing too fast for Tony's liking. He was talking and walking (and, god, weren't those suddenly the fondest, proudest memories of his life?) and still Richard's little Teddy and Mary's little cherub. Though perhaps it was more <em>little terror</em> now, with half his dinner on Richard's flannel shirt. </p><p>Tony looked back down at his book, brows furrowed. Apparently some magical change in persona happened at the age of two, when darling little children became monsters sent from the depths of Hell to terrorise their parents. Tony looked back up at Peter again, round cheeked and big-eyed, making grabby hands for his Dada and politely saying <em>no peas, car'rors please</em>. </p><p>"Not my Peter" he decided, shaking his head at the book. No, not his Peter. Peter, who had been nothing but a delight the past two years. Peter who had taken his <em>real</em> first steps towards Tony, late in the evening when Mary had nipped quickly to the bathroom. Peter who had giggled so sweetly when he'd tripped, landing in the soft, curved cradle of Tony's wing as he caught him. Peter who slept so soundly for a child. So quietly, little fat cheeks mushed against his pillow. </p><p>
  <em>Soon, the time will come when you must be neither seen nor heard. </em>
</p><p>The Guardian had come back one night, when the Parker household was sleeping soundly. A gentle warning that one day, Tony would have to retreat to a silent presence in Peter's life, unnoticed and forgotten, a figment of his youthful imagination. Tony knew it was true, knew that his job wasn't to selfishly relish in suddenly having a family, a child, someone to love and care for. His purpose was to keep Peter safe, keep him alive. He watched Peter take the spoon from Richard, chubby fingers curling around it briefly before he promptly set it down on the table, untouched, a broad grin showing his gummy mouth. </p><p>Tony shifted and let his right wing extend, stretching forwards until the sturdy, long feathers brushed against Peter's shoulder and arm gently. "Eat your greens" he chastised softly. Peter's gaze flit about the room, mouth opening and closing, before to Richard's delight he picked up the spoon and reluctantly slurped up the green contents. Tony sympathised - Peas were never his favourite either, but he knew just three spoonfuls and Peter would get pink Jell-O for dessert. </p><p>Pink Jell-O was Peter's favourite. He liked to smack it around and watch it wobble. </p><p>Secretly, Tony did too. </p><p>His wings were still Peter's favourite. Secretly, partially, Tony had warmed up to them too. He liked them most of all when Peter's little hands were buried in the feathers or when he used them to cradle the boy, wrapped around him in a protective shield. One of Tony's favourite moments, however, came around that night, when Peter was being taken to bed after a day full of playing and learning to finger paint. Mary cradled him close as she tidied up the crib, plumping the pillow and shaking out the blankets with her free hand. Tony watched her as he sank down onto the floor besides the bed, one wing shaking out and stretching out until it lay over the mattress. When Mary settled the boy down he nestled amongst the feathers, head cushioned on the marginal feathers, tiny hands instinctively fisting in the secondary coverts. To Mary nothing would look out of the ordinary, but to Tony, he got to lay there for the night, cradling his charge protectively and watching fondly as he snuffled in his sleep. </p><p>It made him ache for a life he'd never lived. It made him cry for the life he had. </p><p>It made him vow to dedicate this new life to Peter. To keep him safe. To protect him and cherish him. </p><p>To love him. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Redemption</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Trigger warnings for this chapter:<br/>• Major character death (not Tony or Peter)<br/>• Car crash<br/>• Blood and injury /trauma</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Skip from the second divider to the third if you want to avoid that content.</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I didn't include the trigger warnings as official tags because I didn't want the contents of the chapter or narrative to be spoiled. My apologies if this inconveniences anyone or triggers anyone - The work is safe to read up to the second divider and the harmful content can be skipped entirely by scrolling straight down to the third divider.<br/><b>If you are feeling low or if mention/reading of this content makes you feel low, you can find suicide, trauma, depression and anxiety hotlines for free;<br/><a href="https://kimdaily.tumblr.com/post/168676792698">here</a><br/><a href="https://petalier.tumblr.com/post/188047585003"> and here.</a></b></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter started preschool at three. Unlike the other kids his age he didn't scream or wail or cry. He didn't beg his parents not to leave him. He hugged his stuffed bear close and let Mary introduce him to Melania, one of the teachers, and then let Melania lead him over to the sand pit. Tony watched his boy proudly, arms folded and chin jutted at the other kids as though to say; <em>see, that's how its done. That's </em>my<em> boy. </em>He watched Mary linger near the door, tears in her eyes as she raised her phone to take a picture, and he softened his triumphant gaze, shifting one ruffled wing to brush against her shoulder gently. </p><p>"Its okay. I'll keep him safe" he reassured her, and her shoulders dropped as she relaxed, giving her son one last watery smile before she slipped away. Tony watched her go and was struck yet again with the pensive wonder of what his own childhood had been like in those grey areas where he couldn't remember what had happened. Tony hadn't gone to preschool, he knew that much. Home tutors and private education, even from a young age. Professors from Yale and Harvard and MIT all before the age of ten. Had Maria been proud? Had Howard ever looked at his grades and felt something other than disappointment? </p><p>He turned and looked at Peter, who was already invested in cramming sand into a little pot. Shaking his head with a smile, Tony wandered across the room and settled down besides him, watching with interest as Peter made a sand castle. Peter didn't cry once that day, talking shyly to the other kids there and sharing his juice box with a sweet, round kid named Ned at lunch. Tony kept patient vigilance, never quite shaking that warm, proud feeling. Howard and Maria be damned - Tony felt like the proudest parent in these moments. Felt as though, for once, he was going something <em>good</em>. Like he wasn't tainting Peter just by being there. No amount of good grades or nuclear reactors or missiles had ever felt like this. No amount of expensive prostitutes and bottle of champagne and parties. It occurred to him then that this was true happiness; this was the feeling he'd been chasing all along. </p><p>Richard and Mary picked him up after his first day together, still dressed from work and leaning nervously through the doorway of the coatroom, eyes scanning for their precious son. Peter was being helped into his coat by another of the workers, a friendly and portly woman who called all of the children <em>little beans</em>. Tony sat on the bench besides Peter as she stuffed his hands into his sleeves, wings tucked up carefully out of the way even though they were neither seen nor felt. They still caught him out with their ability to exist on another dimensional plane sometimes - He still jerked and dove for vases he hadn't knocked over or apologised to people he buffeted with them who'd never felt it. </p><p>"Peter!" Richard called, grin wide as the boy caught sight of his parents and fled the room, tiny legs wobbling as he ran for them, arms outstretched. For all Peter had been content to be left here he was delighted to be picked up again, proudly holding up the prints of his hands they'd made as commemoration of their first day. The boy babbled excitedly and shrieked when he was given the little box of presents for doing so well, ripping into it as Richard strapped him into the carseat. </p><p>Tony shouldn't. </p><p>"What do you have there?" He whispered to the boy who jerked in surprise, wild eyes rounding on him before he grinned, big and broad. </p><p>"You came back!"</p><p>Strapping themselves into their seats, his parents laughed. "Of course, honey. We will always come back for you" Mary vowed, though Peter paid them no heed, brandishing the little red and gold teddy bear at Tony excitedly. It was a perfectly made thing - Soft coiled fur and wide, glittery eyes. Tony reached out and touched it gently, relishing in the softness of its fur. He'd never had toys growing up. The closest he'd ever had to something like this; to a comforting soft toy was the blanket Ana had made him when he was younger, soft and hand-knit. Howard had sniffed and dismissed it as simple bedding - Unnecessary but permitted as it wasn't a distraction or needless thing. Maria had simply given a willowy smile, complimented the stitching and asked for a refill on her martini. </p><p>"What's his name?" Tony asked as Peter showed him the teddy proudly, like a prize well won. Peter paused in tugging carefully on its ear, looking thoughtful. </p><p>"Tony" he decided, completely unswayed by Tony's presence. The Angel had only ever told Peter his name once before and he blinked in surprise, wing feathers puffing up uncontrollably as he stared down at the tiny object in wonder. Did Peter remember? Or was it simply a name he'd heard in passing or thought of randomly?</p><p>"Do you like him?" Peter asked, head tilting. Tony immediately nodded, moving his hand from the toy to Peter's cheek, smoothing over the soft skin gently. </p><p>"I love him". </p><p>
  
</p><p>They took Peter to the beach. </p><p>Tony had almost forgotten what the beach was like; it had been so long since his last visit. Since <em>Peter's</em> last visit. Life outside of the boy seemed to fade into disregard, ignored and forgotten for Peter's first steps and how Peter's nose twitched as he slept. He stood consideringly by the car as Richard bundled Peter into the back, asking Mary for the fifth time that hour if they'd remembered to pack the sunscreen. He thought of the sea air and the sand between his toes. Of a past life where the beach would have meant some private strip of perfectly maintained privacy, surrounded by alcohol and an obnoxiously loud speaker with some scantily clad model on his arm. </p><p>He looked down in bemusement at the array of bags and beach toys scattered around his feet. </p><p><em>Never going to be a family man</em> indeed. </p><p>The trip was a late secondary celebration for Peter's fourth birthday and a blatant excuse for Richard and Mary to relax on the beach after a long week of hard work. Richard was up for a promotion and Mary was back teaching part-time because, as she put it, 'sitting in the house all day made me want to chew my leg off like a rabid coyote'. Tony could sympathise; though largely for different reasons. He shook himself out of reminiscing about his old life and settled into the car. It had been two long years since Peter had last seen him, but he was always there, keeping watch. The Guardian had visited once more in that time, reminding Tony of his abilities and his influences. One of which was the ability to 'fly' to places, but he enjoyed the car ride. It was, perhaps, the most normal thing about his new life. </p><p>The drive was cheery and uneventful. Peter played games on his new kid-safe tablet and Richard hummed along to the radio while Mary watched the world fly by. It was peaceful in a way that the 'family drives' of his own childhood had never been. Peaceful in a way where he thought he'd be bored, but was content to sit and alternate between watching Peter feed animated dogs and watching the scenery. The first breath of salty, fresh air made him feel light and alive. The moment the car was parked he was outside it, wings spreading out in excitement as he peered out across the car park and towards the miles of yellow sand that stretched before them. The feeling of the breeze between his feathers was already enticing and he was loathe to reject the urge, waiting patiently while the Parkers wrestled with their haul. </p><p>They took Peter straight towards the beach today, bypassing the stalls of themed and tourist ware to hit the golden stretch. As Richard and Mary helped Peter down the steps Tony paused, anticipation making his wings shiver against his back. A passing thought and his typical outfit of loose jeans and a worn, soft shirt became board-shorts and no shoes, bounding down the steps and into the sand. It was grainy and warm between his toes and he wriggled them, happy warmth flooding through him as he breathed in the salt air and felt the grains tickle the soles of his feet. The sun felt golden and soothing on his skin as he closed his eyes, a small and happy grin curving his mouth at the sensations. He'd turned his head and watched as Richard patiently held Peter's hand, guiding him over the sand in small, wobbly steps. </p><p>Tony longed to be the one holding his little hand, watching him stick out his tongue as he focused on keeping his footing. </p><p>He brushed off the urge for leaving their side, walking down the stretch of the beach towards the crisp water. It was a nice day for it - Sunny, hot but not too scalding that everyone was lethargic and unwilling to go outside. Soothed by the knowledge he could be at Peter's side in an instant if needed, he took a step into the cold, lapping water. It wasn't as shocking as it would be if he were still human and the sensation of it curling around his ankles as he walked became oddly soothing. He wondered how far in he could go; what he'd see. He didn't need to breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest held no value except habit and appearance. He glanced behind him, gaze settling on where Peter sat, throwing sand avidly up into the air. Maybe just one moment...</p><p>A shift of his wings and he found himself on a sandy, murky ocean floor, surrounded by the push and pull of the current. There were no fish in sight in this space, but plenty of rocks and other marine life. A small crab floated past, swirled around by the tide and he let out a laugh, looking about in wonder. It was a giddy rush, enveloping him like a cloud as he turned and turned, raised his hands to let them push through the water. It was no crystal clear Hawaiian water, but it was still a near mystical experience as he watched the silt swirl around his heels. He wondered how much further he could go, what else he'd see...And then he turned, facing the shore again.</p><p>His duty lay to Peter. He let out a sigh and allowed himself several more moments, spreading his wings slowly to watch the water disturb the feathers, to feel it gliding over his skin. He gave one powerful thrust of his wings, just to watch the water coil and ripple, then let himself return to his boy, dry as bone as he sat down besides the boy and watched with interest as he built a sandcastle. </p><p>He wondered what Peter would look like when he was older. His hair hadn't changed much since birth - The same rich, dark brown, though the waves had grown longer and fuller and in some places they twisted into curls and ringlets. His eyes were a brown not unlike Tony's - Warm and expressive and like honey when they caught the sunlight. He still had round little cheeks and wide eyes framed by long lashes. Still had that strange little quirk in his brow that made him look constantly quizzical about the world. Tony longed to move time, to cheat and see, but time was the one constraint they were bound to obey the laws of. Time would grant them small mercies, sometimes, but it was as constant as the ebb and flow of the water before him. </p><p>He relaxed back into the sand, spreading his wings out over the soft grains to catch the sun. Peter was content to play and dig and eat the picnic and quietly refused to play in the sea because he didn't want the fish to eat his toes off. Tony laughed at that and then at the perplexed expressions on the Parkers' faces, unsure of how to deal with that surprising admission. Mary took the lead while Richard wrestled with the blanket, guiding Peter towards the pier as she tried to explain in basic terms that whilst some fish like sharks did like to eat people toes, there were no sharks on the beach. Tony strolled ahead, back in his jeans and boots as he strolled along the sea-worn wood. He wondered if when Peter was older he'd still like the beach; if he'd come here with his friends or a date, or even one day with his own family. </p><p>The thought made his heart pang and he turned, leaning against the railing as he watched the people mill below. He wondered about Pepper; about Rhodey. God, who was taking care of Dum-E? He wondered what Stark Industries was like without a Stark. </p><p>He knew he could go. Knew he could check on them. Watch them. Knew he could ask The Guardian. </p><p>He wasn't sure if he wanted to. </p><p>"'Scuse me, Mister?" A soft, raspy voice came from his side and he startled, jerking out of his thoughts to look down with his heart in his throat. Staring up at him, Tony the teddy clutched to his chest, was Peter. "I like your wings". </p><p>Tony's breath seized in his chest and he looked around, but nobody else was staring. Nobody else had noticed anything out of the ordinary. He looked back down in wonder at the little boy who stared up as though he'd merely complimented his coat, a shy half-smile quirking his lips. Tony softened, smiled. "Thank you. I like your teddy". It was clear Peter didn't recognise him, nor think anything unusual about the fact that Tony had wings. It was perplexing but endearing. </p><p>"His name is Tony. Can I touch your wings?" </p><p>Tony blinked, but gave a slow nod, letting his left-most wing stretch slowly, carefully towards the boy. Peter's fingertips had barely brushed the longest feather before Mary called him, ignorant of Tony's presence. The boy looked torn, but pulled his arm away, retreating back to his family with a forlorn look over his shoulder. Tony let out a shaky sigh and turned with them, paying careful attention to mask himself from everyone - Peter included. As they left the pier he watched the boy look back, brows furrowing. </p><p>Tony wondered if he would remember that, when he was older. The strange man on the pier with wings. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter is five, and about to die. </p><p>It starts with that crawling, heavy sensation. Like the leaden weight of clouds before a thunderstorm; that coiling sensation of when you suddenly realise you may not have actually picked up your keys or turned off your hair curlers. </p><p>Mary and Richard were arguing. Their first big fight in almost a year. At this point Tony couldn't even remember who had started it, their words heated and angry as Richard drove through the dark and the pouring rain, the windscreen wipes swishing back and forth in a useless attempt to try and clear the view. Winter was in full swing and the road was slick beneath the tyres of the Cadillac as Tony shifted in his seat, unsettled. It was almost like déjà vu - or like walking into your house and immediately realising <em>something</em> wasn't right. Maybe that mug wasn't where you'd left it, or the door was unlocked when you knew you'd locked it. He looked out of the window but could see nothing no matter how hard he tried. </p><p>His gaze shifted to Peter, curled up in the seat. The boy was half asleep and drowsy, wearing headphones that played lullabies just barely loud enough to cover his furious parents. Their fight had changed topic several times and currently fell on Richard's inability to compromise. Tony reached out and quietly soothed a hand over Peter's hair, lulling the boy to a sound sleep. As Peter's lashes dipped closed he looked back out of the window, disturbed. The sensation wouldn't go away, but gave no other clues. There was nothing around them now but the rural outskirts of New York, swathed in secretive darkness and drowning under the pouring rain. </p><p>There was a sheen of pale yellow on the water droplets that streamed down Peter's window. Unobtrusive and almost easy to ignore, except for the fact that it was light. Light, in the middle of a rural backstreet where street lamps were a forgotten part of the city. The screech of the windscreen wiper seemed to drag on forever as Tony watched that faint gold glow spread across the window. It spread slowly like a pair of wings, dissolving from one large light to the merged strength of two. The world seemed to come almost to a stop, his own harsh exhale shaking the air around him as he twisted, gripping Richard's headrest and the backseat headrest as he rose, wings spreading up and out like a rising wave as he surged forwards. He wasn't sure if he was yelling or if Richard was yelling as he reached for Peter, wings sweeping forwards with the force of a hurricane. </p><p>The black-blue feathers swept the oncoming car from view, closing around Peter, encasing him in safety as the screech and groan of metal overtook any other sound. The car rolled and Tony let himself fall with it, ducking his head down and squeezing Peter to his chest, drawing his wings even tighter around the boy who awoke with a curdling scream that echoed even over the sounds of two cars dying in a grisly, shattered collision. Tony squeezed his eyes shut and tried to cover Peter's head as best as he could as the world shook around them, an earthquake of Hell limited just to their little pocket of the world. The rain outside continued to pour, undisturbed by the horror it washed over. The air outside was cold, but the chill Tony felt in his bones had nothing to do with the weather. </p><p>The world stopped rolling. Time kept moving. </p><p>Tony lay on his back in the side-tipped vehicle, cradling Peter close as he listened to the hiss of heated, exposed metal, the final tinkling sound of falling glass. The car was crumpled inwards, jagged and warped and Tony knew even without opening his wings that Richard and Mary would be dead. Knew Peter had only been spared the same fate by Tony. He could feel the patter of rain against his feathers, the wet warmth against his collar as Peter bawled. Tony kept his eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to open them and make this even realer than it was. His heart shattered within his chest, listening to the ragged wails of <em>Mommy</em>! <em>Daddy</em>!</p><p>Peter's life had been perfect. Richard and Mary had been <em>good</em> people. Good <em>parents</em>. Peter had nobody else - No grandparents, no siblings. No godparents. He sucked in his own jagged breath as he held Peter through his frantic squirming and writhing. "I'm here" he whispered brokenly, keeping one arm curled tight around Peter as he pushed himself into sitting upright, accepting the confines of the dimensional plane. He set a hand down to brace himself, allowed the skin to tear and bleed on twisted, sharp metal. It felt human. It felt like punishment. Peter was too terrified and upset to question Tony's presence or who he was, thrashing in Tony's grip as he shifted and grunted, trying to unfurl his wings in the tight confines of the car. As the longest feathers swept past each other, parting like a Broadway stage curtain he saw a hand between the two front seats, bloody and broken, fingers at odd angles. </p><p>His stomach churned and he pulled them from the car through temporal dimension flight, raising his high and arcing above them to protect Peter from the rain. The other car was on its side too, one headlight flickering through the darkness, dim and weak. Tony tried to reach out, to sense any form of life, but there was nothing. Just the hollow echoes of existence, marred and broken. He stood helplessly in the little bubble of quiet formed by his wings, gaze turning down to the wailing boy in his grip, reaching desperately for the car. </p><p>
  <em>Why him. Why them. Why... </em>
</p><p>No help in sight. Miles from anywhere. </p><p>Tony forced aside his own rising horror and moved cautiously towards the front of the car. Richard always had his phone in his pocket. It would be ruined, but...</p><p>He looked down at Peter and juggled him onto one arm, pressing his face into his chest so he wouldn't see as he reached through what remained of the window. The phone, when he pulled it out, was almost obliterated. It didn't matter, though. He stared at it, willed it, and the screen came to life as if nothing was wrong. </p><p>
  <em>"911, what's your emergency?" </em>
</p><p>His breath caught in his throat and he willed himself to speak above Peter's cries. </p><p>"Car accident. Three people dead; one survivor. Six year old male. Cold Spring Road, 42°08'56.9"N 73°04'55.5"W" he ground out, closing his eyes. He didn't have an answer for how he knew it. Didn't have an answer for any of the questions that swept through him like a tsunami. </p><p>
  <em>"Sir? Were those co-"</em>
</p><p>"Helicopter will be quickest. He needs - He doesn't have any family left". </p><p>Tony's words die off and so does the phone. He lets it fall from his grip, sinking down onto the wet concrete besides the car. He knows the call was recorded, knows they'll get there. </p><p>"I'm so sorry" he whispered, looking down at Peter. He reached up and brushed his fingertips across the boy's temple, quieting the turmoil in his mind until the boy breathed out and slumped against him, fight dissolving into exhaustion. Tony held him close and wondered if the wetness on his cheeks was rainwater or his own tears. He looked up at the sky through the filter of his wings, watched the rain pour on. He felt hollow, gutted out and left as a shell. Closed his eyes, let his head fall back against the cold metal. For a moment the rain became ash, settling like snowmelt on his cheeks. For a moment, the rain became the soft breeze of the air con, Obidiah Stane's voice gravel and grit in his ear. <em>Tony, I'm so sorry. Your parents...</em></p><p>Anger ranged inside him. A war as brutal and bloody as any historical predecessor. His could still taste ash on his tongue when he looked up, blinking into the murky night. "Why him?" He asked aloud, voice sandpaper and steel. He thought back to the burn of the whiskey Obidiah gave him while he cried. "He doesn't deserve this. They didn't deserve this. What kind of sick-" He cut himself off, jaw clenching as he tugged Peter tighter, kept him warm and safe from the chill and the rain. He stared down at the unconscious boy, at the scrapes along his face and the bruises. He knew they were not his own influence - Knew they were there because Peter surviving the crash was a miracle enough. He pressed his thumb to the cut on Peter's leg, willed himself not to cry. </p><p>"I'll never forgive you for this" he whispered. "Never. No purpose is worth this". </p><p>
  
</p><p>The helicopter arrives twenty minutes later. </p><p>They find a boy, soaked through and alone, crying in the back of the car. They find three bodies. They cannot find the fourth man who called. </p><p>Tony watches from afar as a kind-faced paramedic loads Peter into the back of an ambulance. Peter hasn't stopped crying since the roar of the helicopter woke him up. </p><p>Tony's heart breaks. </p><p>There, ragged and torn and forgotten on the asphalt besides the car, lies Peter's red and gold teddy. </p><p>There's nobody waiting for Peter when the helicopter brings him to the nearest hospital, a small and local building just outside Cold Water. Nobody except Tony, a silent and vigilant guardian in the shadows as Peter is tucked into a ward bed, surrounded by strangers. They bring a therapist, a CSP agent, a psychiatrist. Peter's leg needed stitches and the paramedic that held him all the way here puts a blue band-aid with pink teddy bears over the neat little row of black lines. </p><p>When Peter wakes up, he asks the Nurse who gives him a sandwich where the man with the wings went. </p><p>Tony doesn't have the heart to wipe the memory. </p><p>It takes them four days to get hold of May Parker. Peter cries every single night. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Time is the one thing they must obey the laws of. Time is the one constant they cannot control. </p><p>Times ticked on; as steady and unwavering as if the world ceased to exist. </p><p>Time stops for no-one. </p><p>May Parker is a good woman. She tries her best. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter is fourteen when he meets Harry Osborne. </p><p>Harry is striking; all golden hair and none of the chubbiness or awkwardness of his peers. Though he and Tony share no visual similarity - Tony can see his own younger in the brighter-than-life teen. Harry is the sole heir to Oscorp, a biological laboratory and technology manufacturer. Stark Industries' only worthwhile homeland competitor, though Stark Industries has always been on a different level with their technology. Harry is bold and just the right amount of arrogant to make it seem like earned confidence. Tony tries not to dislike him instantly, he really does, but he's seen boys like this a hundred times over. </p><p>He's <em>been</em> a boy like this. </p><p>Peter is smitten. </p><p>Peter isn't poor; not <em>poverty</em> poor, anyway. What money was left from Richard and Mary's deaths had long since been used up on moving into a two bedroom apartment in lower Queens, in school and new clothes and in birthdays and therapy sessions. Tony doesn't have the power to sway something like that, not in any way other than roaming the streets at night while Peter sleeps, picking change up off the sidewalk and putting it in the little ceramic pig change-holder that sits on the decorative shelf in the main room. It never amounts to much, a few extra dollars each month, but its worth it to see the way Peter grins when they pull out the rubber stopper and enough change for an extra treat in the weekly grocery shop spills out. May did her best; working hard as a Nurse and pulling the odd under-hand cash job as a cleaner through a friend, but money was carefully regulated and luxuries like Gucci and Givenchy were not in their budget.</p><p>Peter isn't rich but Harry is by default; and Harry noticing Peter means the teen takes it as a compliment. </p><p>Tony does and doesn't know why at the same time. He may be bias but Peter is <em>prettier</em> than Harry. His jaw isn't as sharp but its a nicer shape, cheeks rounded just enough to give him little dimples when he grins. The kink in his brow never grew straight but that doesn't matter. Not to Tony. Peter still has the prettiest, deepest eyes and the softest, nicest curls. Still has the sweetest voice; even if the boys at school tease him for sounding feminine. </p><p>It wasn't to say Harry was <em>awful</em>. </p><p>Arrogant and ignorant to lifestyles other than his own though he might be; he was actually...Annoyingly nice. He always saved Peter a seat at their desks or at lunch and he was always interested in whatever Peter had to say and on the rare occasions he <em>did</em> do something like question why anyone would have a budget for something like food; he sat admonished and apologetic when Peter snippily told him not everyone had the luxury of that much money. </p><p>Peter had grown up a good kid. The fear of cars had eventually faded and the loss of his parents hadn't turned the boy bitter and sour; if anything it had only amplified his gently nature. The boy fed stray cats and always gave money to the homeless and volunteered with soup kitchens whenever he wasn't helping May with housework or working on homework from school. Peter was soft-spoken but fiercely righteous against bullies and hate and was so unerringly <em>good</em> that it made Tony worry all the more. Peter had been good before; and <em>purpose</em> had stolen his family. </p><p>Tony's own bitterness hadn't faded. He doubted it ever would. The Guardian had never offered solace or explanation. Had only been that sourceless voice inside his head that told him <em>purpose had a plan for them all</em> and <em>what needs to happen must</em>. </p><p>Tony failed to see what killing Peter's family offered. What purpose and need was worth that agony and pain, that lifetime of open wounds, but the caution of that event had stayed with him in all the years that had passed. Every time Peter went to cross a road Tony influenced him to check and double check; to keep checking even as he walked. Peter had been clumsy and gangly growing up but his injuries, thanks to Tony's determined care, had never surpassed generic growing up accidents. A knee scrape here or a bumped elbow there, a scar on his chest from falling off his bike. </p><p>It was this caution that told Tony to keep Harry at an arm's length; to watch the other teen for anything that Peter might not see. It feels almost ridiculous to be so suspicious of a fourteen year old who's only flaw is the fact that the silver spoon he was born with has clouded his perspective on living and money, but Tony can't shake the feeling. It wasn't that crawling, leaden dread of the car crash; that had never returned since then and Tony privately wondered if that had been the true purpose. If maybe the crash would sway some law or change some important figure's view or any other influence that could come. </p><p>No, this felt rather like the caution of a father or older brother, warily eyeing their son's first date and thinking of how best to threaten a fourteen year old without getting accused of threatening a fourteen year old. </p><p>"Was he meant to meet Harry?" Tony wonders aloud one day, sat at Peter's bedside as the boy sleeps. He looks so peaceful sleeping - Nightmares and haunting memories chased away by Tony's gentle touch. "Or is something like that beneath you? To small in comparison to pulverising his parents in a Cadillac?" It comes out as a sneer, volatile and for a moment filled with spite. </p><p>Nothing answers. </p><p>Tony has long stopped expecting a response, but he still stings on Peter's behalf, wounded by the uncertainty of what is and isn't. </p><p>Tony sighed and moved his wings, arcing the sleek feathers over Peter's prone form like a shield. Its a pointless act. There's no rain inside Peter's LEGO-filled bedroom and no ethereal eyes that Tony could block from prying, but it comforted him all the same. It feels like cherishing, protecting, however weak a gesture. It feels like his own purpose. That familial, warm feeling hadn't faded over the years; watching Peter grow from a shy toddler to a fresh faced pre-teen. Tony still knew that Peter liked his carrots raw not cooked and that Peter still had the blue and red teddy that May got him to replace Tony the teddy. Still cherished the knowledge of Peter's favourite colour and what animal he would be if he wasn't born a person and still loved the fact that Peter always turned his blankets into a little nest before sleeping. </p><p>Tony cherished <em>Peter</em>. It hadn't been a startling realisation; not really. He'd come to terms long ago with the fact that he suddenly had paternal instincts and it had been easy from there to understand that he loved Peter, too. Valued the boy's presence in his life; adored all the little quirks that made the boy unique. Tony was even more smitten with Peter than the boy was of his newest friend, and it was an easy thing to admit. Especially when the only one around to hear it was fast asleep, drooling quietly onto his pillow. Tony shifted and leaned forwards against the edge of Peter's bed, letting his wing settle down slowly until it draped over the sleeping boy like a blanket.</p><p>Peter always slept soundest under the cover of the thick feathers, warm and safe. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Harry is Peter's first kiss; and Tony seethes silently in the background. </p><p>Its <em>experimental</em>. Cautious and tinted with the nerves of two boys trying something not quite the norm. Harry's kissed girls before but never boys; and Peter hasn't kissed anyone at all. Its a week before Peter's fifteenth birthday, the two boys huddled together on the dock of a private boating lake, nervous and shy but delighted by the tentative kiss. It isn't <em>bad</em>. Not as far as first kisses go; Tony can remember his own, being eleven and kissing some pretty strawberry blonde girl who insisted they'd get married and Tony would have to buy her a nice house with a stable full of ponies and lots of pretty dresses. </p><p>Peter's lip part against Harry's in a surprised, pleased gasp, and Tony turns away. He's a father figure, for fuck's sake. An unknown observer; its practically voyeurism. Peter hadn't consented to his first kiss having an audience (that was the point of Harry suggesting it in this secluded little spot) and Tony hadn't consented to the feeling that shot down his spine and into his gut as he listened to Peter giggle as Harry told him his lips were soft. </p><p>He felt like a grumpy old man sat on the grass, arms folded as he moodily stared at a tree. Moments like these were his lesser favoured parts of his new life. To say nothing of Peter discovering masturbation at fourteen. Tony had long learned to scamper out of ear-shot if the boy went to shower or to keep himself entertained downstairs if Peter stuffed his shirt against the gap beneath the bedroom door. It felt like discovering your parents had sex for the first time. Still...He supposed there were worse ways to do things like learn to kiss and explore your sexuality. Harry had yet to give Tony any reason to distrust him, treating Peter like a friend and equal even if Norman Osborne's eyes always held a certain level of distaste for his son's best friend. </p><p>"Harry, do you believe in like...I don't know. Angels? And stuff?" </p><p>Tony's ears pricked and he turned, looking curiously over his shoulder. Kissing had somehow turned into laying side by side on the wooden walkway, staring out over the water. Tony felt his heart twist and he rose, moving carefully and quietly despite the fact that it had been almost ten long years since Peter had last seen Tony in any form, and as far as Tony knew the memories were forgotten or buried, a fragment of Peter's past. </p><p>"What, like God and Heaven?" Harry asked in reply as Tony sank down to sit cross-legged next to Peter, watching the water ripple. The other boy's mouth twisted as he thought about it. "I don't really think there's some man up in the sky controlling everyone and stuff. But I think, maybe, there's an afterlife? I hope there is". </p><p>Reluctantly, Tony allowed himself a moment of sympathy. Peter wasn't the only one with a broken family. Harry's mother had died of ovarian and breast cancer when he was two. He'd been too young to really remember her, but the sting of a lost parent never faded, and Harry felt the empty chasm of a motherless childhood as much as Peter felt the aching, empty hollowness of losing his own parents. Harry had only ever asked once why Peter lived with his Aunt, and hadn't pressed for details when Peter had quietly divulged their brutal demise. </p><p>"Do you think there's someone or something watching over us?" Peter asked quietly, dropping a hand to trail his fingertips through the water. Tony blew out a breath, turning his head and looking down at Peter with a soft smile. </p><p>
  <em>Always, kiddo. </em>
</p><p>"Maybe. I mean, I know a lot of shitty stuff happens in life...But who knows? They say everything happens for a reason". </p><p>Tony let his gaze rise to Harry, who looked pensive and maybe a little sad. Tony felt his heart twist and he turned back to the waters, mutely stretching out a wing to cover each boy from the cooling breeze that blew across the lake waters. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Deliverance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is...Pathetic and I'm not even sorry. I should be; and I likely will be in a few days when I'm out of this blank, dead state. But for now...This is it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Norman Osborne reminds Tony of Obidiah Stane. It was an uncomfortable memorandum to his old life; a past far from reach but never fully forgotten. Fifteen years and Tony had never so much as attempted to revisit any of it; but the slow, predatory way that Norman smiles makes him think of the complete lack of empathy in Obidiah's voice as he told a twenty year old Tony to stop crying and live up to the legacy of being the last Stark alive. </p><p>Norman reminded him of some sort of lizard or snake. His eyes teemed with slyness and the way he <em>smiled</em> made Tony's skin crawl. </p><p>It makes Peter's skin crawl too, but the boy is far too polite to say anything. Norman isn't cruel or abusive, just...<em>Slimy</em>. Everything about him screams untrustworthy; like the seedy men hanging around in bars or lurking at the mouths of alleyways. Harry has the same eyes as his father; pale, crisp blue but Harry's were indefinitely kinder. They gave him a startling kind of beauty whereas Norman's eyes made him look like some sort of alien impostor; posing as a person. Tony loathed whenever Peter was in the man's presence, itching to usher the sweet teen away from that eerie gaze. Norman acted kind enough; inquiring politely about Peter's day and health whenever Harry brought him around, but there was just something...Off about him. </p><p>It made Tony think of that crawling, dread-filled sensation of the crash. </p><p>He stared into those icy, pale eyes as he stepped forwards to Peter's back, ducking his chin to the boy's shoulder and wrapping his arms around his torso, loose though Peter wouldn't feel it regardless as he curved his wings forwards, comforted by the barrier the thick feathers formed between the two. Peter relaxed in his arms, warmed and comforted by the ethereal presence he remained oblivious to as he smiled back at Norman, responding in kind. Tony didn't smile, fingers curling in the soft material of Peter's shirt as he selfishly indulged the urge to display his claim; seen or not. Peter was fifteen and the sole commander of his heart; honey-eyed and sweet tongued. He'd never act on it; would never be <em>able</em> to even if he <em>wanted</em> to, but he couldn't deny the way Peter had grown into his beauty even more over the past year; flourishing like a blooming flower. </p><p>Peter was lithe and pretty for his age; in line with Harry's unusual presence for boys their age. They made an attractive pair, even as friends. Despite a few cautious, experimental kisses they hadn't taken it any further, hadn't seemed to move on from just friends exploring in the safety of a trusted friendship. It coiled something satisfying in Tony, wrapped him in the selfish knowledge that Peter was still his. Only his; for now. In all the ways Tony could have him. </p><p>If The Guardian knew anything of the slow change of his love; it said nothing. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Harry begins working part-time at Oscorp at sixteen. </p><p>At his insistence, Peter garners an internship. Its nothing more than running files, coffee and communication but it looks good on a resume and makes Tony swell with pride regardless. Peter looked nothing but the adorable intern in his pressed slacks and crisp white shirt - A present outfit from Harry for the joy of working together. It means seeing more of Norman Osborne but it also means an extra $100 a week that Peter religiously and responsibly splits between a savings account and the weekly groceries, with $10 a week to spare for whatever splurge caught his eye. Tony wanted to kiss him when Harry handed him the letter offer, wanted to wipe away the tears of joy and drag his boy in close. </p><p>Harry does it for him. He doesn't mind half as much as he used to. </p><p>Peter slept soundly that night, brought to exhaustion by the thrill of the day. Tony waited patiently, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest before he rose, leaning down over the boy's sleeping form to press a gently, soft kiss to his temple. "I'm so proud of you" he whispered, running his fingers slowly through Peter's soft locks. "Your parents are, too". He meant it; even if he didn't know where Richard and Mary were now. They'd never not been proud of their son, cherishing every drawing and every milestone, nothing but supportive and encouraging as he grew. He thought about it often, about how they'd feel watching their boy grow up as Tony had. If Peter's life would be over-different with them still around. </p><p>May takes Peter to a fancy restaurant to celebrate. She tells him his parents would be proud, too. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter is good at his internship. </p><p>Tony expected nothing less; Peter was frighteningly smart and ahead in all of his classes at school. The boy was quick to pick up on the ins and outs of being an intern, sticking with heady dedication to whatever time schedule he was following. He always arrived neat and orderly; hair brushed and shirt tucked in. Its a safe job - Peter is kept far away from any of the experimental tech or the laboratories and most of his day consists of organising data files, bringing people coffee and taking notes during presentations or research. It was steady; relatively mundane in Tony's opinion, and he spent most of the hours Peter was in work lounging atop the building, listening keenly for trouble but enjoying the afternoon sun and the view. He could see the Stark Tower from here, unchanged and unbroken by time; but the longing to go to it had long faded. He wasn't Tony Stark anymore. </p><p>Norman still put him at dis-ease. The man watched Peter like a hawk whenever he was near, too-nice and too-polite like the old man at the grocery store who secretly had underage porn on his laptop. Too interested in Peter's day at the building, too interested in his thoughts and what he and Harry talked about. It unsettled Tony but he never thought to investigate it further; putting it down to the general distrust of snide, slimy old men. </p><p>Tony ought to know better. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter's sixteenth birthday is on the rapid approach - His internship steady and his grades high. Life is good. For a while. </p><p>Tony's negligence catches up with him. He ought to have known the brittle caution was well founded. Ought to have known Norman wasn't just some sleezeball in a suit. Norman was shifty about Oscorp's finer details but Tony had put that down to not wanting some random teen to know too much. Tony felt that - His own project interns and partners at SI had been heavily monitored, kept away from anything they could run to a competitor or news outlet with. Perhaps it was the uncomfortable connection between himself and Norman that made him deliberately look away at times or dismiss acts. Perhaps it was the unwillingness to know that Peter was being exposed to yet another potential turmoil in his life - The desperate plea for his boy to be safe for once. To have one good thing without it being ruined. </p><p>Peter was staying at Harry's for the night, the duo having worked into the early hours of the morning on a school project for science. Even Tony felt heavy-headed and sick of staring at research, draped like a fat housecat over Harry's unoccupied desk and groaning aloud when Peter said "Hey, I think we can actually finish this sheet tonight, too!"</p><p>Harry replied with a soft but obvious snore, and Tony rolled over to look at the boy in unison with Peter, snorting when he realised the Osborne kid was fast asleep against the bed, laptop forgotten on the floor. </p><p>"Fuck, I feel you, kid" Tony sighed, wings flopping like fish out of water as he tried to push himself upright. It had been...Five hours? Maybe even six since they'd settled down to work, and a glance at the clock on Harry's bedside table told him it was two in the morning. Peter laughed quietly at his friend and shook his head, stretching with his own groan of misery. </p><p>"Alright, yeah. Good call" the teen yawned, stretching his arms high above his head. It made the soft overshirt he was wearing ride up, exposing a strip of pale flank that Tony looked away from hastily. Harry and Peter went to the gym together three times a week and their efforts were beginning to show. Peter was starting to take more concern in his body these days; looking up work out videos on YouTube and asking Harry what styles would suit his hair best. Afternoons were spent preening or sulking in front of a mirror and googling people like Henry Cavill. Tony didn't miss those days either; awkwardly trying to fit into an ever changing body, desperately trying to come to terms with the fact that that was his meatsuit and the only one he was ever gonna get. </p><p>"Fuck, I need to pee" Peter muttered, rising awkwardly from his seat and stumbling over Harry's sprawled legs to the doorway. Tony followed along only for the opportunity to snoop about the house. It was a large building in upper New York, obnoxiously decorated in some old-style oak-wood theme. Monarch paintings hung on the walls and plaques of awards lined the shelves, a blatant display of achievement and wealth to anyone who entered. It made Tony sneer a little as he shuffled along with Peter, feet silent on the polished wood. The luxury apartment was large, with a multitude of un-needed rooms that served for music and viewing and entertaining. Even Tony felt a little lost as they roamed, peering into doorways to try and discern which one contained a bathroom. </p><p>"Rich people" Peter muttered as they walked, scowling. Tony gave a snort and spun, stretching his wings out to brush them along the walls. He was tempted to knock the paintings off the walls, but he didn't want to spook Peter. </p><p>"This is nothing, kid. You should see Stark Tower. A hundred floors, though I guess you could count the underground garage as a hundred-and-one. Makes this place look like...Well. Your apartment, I suppose. In comparison to this. You'd love Stark Tower, though. Our tech is far better, and Pep...Well. I presume Pep is in charge now. Or Obi; he's kind of like Norman but - Anyway, you'd like Pep. She's good. Feisty, but good. And you could play with Dum-E. If he's still around". </p><p>There was light at the far end of the hallway. Peter paused where he crept and Tony's words trailed off as they stared. The low rumble of a distant voice took over the silence. </p><p>"Huh. I guess all rich tech company owners <em>never</em> sleep" Tony mused, entertained by the thought as Peter padded curiously closer. </p><p>
  <em>"...I can assure you, gentlemen, Project Lilith is very much still on course". </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"And there are no complications? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"None. The deal was written off as an income from a laboratory upgrade to a sister stock company. I had the files go through audit twice. Nobody will suspect a thing". </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"And your boy?" </em>
</p><p>There was a soft scoff and the clink of ice in a glass. Tony looked across at Peter who had frozen, head tipped to listen. </p><p>
  <em>"Harry? Hardly a matter of concern. He's kept entertained by his little pet boyfriend. When the time is right and he's not distracted, I'll begin to introduce him to our partnership". </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Be wise with it, Mr. Osborne. I'd hate for this deal to go sour because your boy interferes. Underhand warfare dealings isn't a soft subject. Some might say our dealings are....Immoral. A crime against humanity-"</em>
</p><p>Peter gasped. </p><p>The talking stopped abruptly and the light cut off, switched from the blue of a screen to the yellow of a lamp. Peter froze and began to shake, taking hasty steps backwards. Tony tensed and stepped in front of him, wings spreading out, fluffing up and forming a protective barrier between the dim figure that appeared at the end of the hallway. </p><p>"Harrison?" </p><p>"Um" Peter rasped, shaking his head. "N--No, Mr. Osborne. Its me. I was looking for the bathroom?" It came out timid, tentative. Tony bristled at the prolonged silence that followed, knees bending as he prepared for a fight. Eventually, the shadowy figure spoke. </p><p>"Go back to Harry's room, keep walking. It'll be the third doorway on your left". </p><p>"Oh, sorry. Thank you. I didn’t mean to wake you". It was a good lie; one Tony doubted Norman believed. Men with things to hide were never big on trust; never big on belief. As Peter turned and all but fled down the hallway Tony remained where he was, challenging gaze fixed on the elder man. Norman watched the boy retreat, watched until the bathroom door was shut, and then turned, slipping back into what was undoubtedly his home office. The businessman shut the door behind him but it did nothing to stop Tony, who stepped through the heavy oak as though it were air. Norman's office was unremarkable as far as home offices went; all dark woods and muted browns, a large desk facing an airy window and a modern laptop open on a blank home screen. Files lined the walls but Tony knew without looking they'd be bank statements and legal contracts and audit files. No man in their kind of business left anything worth-while out on the shelf. </p><p>Norman sank into the seat, closed the laptop lid, and picked up his whiskey. The man didn't move for the next forty-five minutes and eventually Tony bade a retreat, sinking down onto the bed next to Peter and keeping watch over the door. </p><p>
  <em>Project Lilith. Underhand warfare. Immoral. A crime against humanity. </em>
</p><p>It didn't take his 260 IQ to work it out and it wouldn't have taken Peter's 213 to work it out, either. The knowledge gave him a crawling sense of dread. Peter had just walked bare-foot into a viper's nest. Norman Osborne was conducting underhand, shady business using Oscorp and Peter had just infringed on that secret. Tony looked down at the boy and shuffled closer, wrapping an arm around his prone form before he shifted a wing forwards, draping the large appendage over the boy like a blanket. </p><p>He would not let Peter die. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Breakfast was a quiet affair. </p><p>Norman didn't mention the night before, sitting opposite the two boys with the local news open on his tablet while Harry scarfed down scrambled eggs and bacon and Peter picked carefully at his own meal, shoulders hunched. Tony leaned against the wall behind Norman, staring resolutely at the man's screen, brows furrowed. The man didn't look up anything in particular, though he did bookmark a news segment about Germany making an unexpected entrance into the phone market. For all it seemed Norman was just a regular businessman enjoying a quiet morning off. Harry seemed none the wiser to anything, the imprint of a pen still pink on his cheek as he sipped his orange juice. Tony watched the teen for a short while, wondering if he had any inkling of what his father was doing. Begrudgingly he was forced to admit it was unlikely; especially if Norman had yet to bring the boy truly into the fold. All Harrison's job as Norman's son and understudy seemed to entail was learning about the company's finances, stocks, partners and history. </p><p>When breakfast was over the two boys retreated back to Harry's room, and Tony could see the pinched, thoughtful look on Peter's face for the rest of the morning. The Osborne's chauffeur came for Peter shortly after twelve, once the boys had spent all morning lazing around playing games on their phones, and as Peter shouldered his backpack Norman came melting out from the shadows, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "A pleasure to have you around, Parker. I look forwards to seeing you fresh-faced on Monday". </p><p>Peter gave a wavering smile, hugged Harry one last time, and slipped into the car. Tony settled besides him, twisted in his seat, and watched Norman stand on the porch of the foyer, all the way until the car turned a corner and the apartment block disappeared from sight. When he turned around, Peter was typing <em>Project Lilith</em> into Google. Tony held his breath, itching suddenly to know if Norman had bugged the boy's phone. The search revealed nothing but a single result about a failed anti-prostitution lever from Texas, and Peter gave up the search by the time the car pulled up outside his and May's apartment. </p><p>If the event was still on Peter's mind for the rest of the weekend he didn't show it, and no matter how attentive Tony was, he could find no evidence of Norman watching, stalking or bugging the teen. Peter spent Sunday lazing in his room, napping off an impressive Chinese takeout and flipping through <em>Business Insider</em>. That, however, quickly dissolved into scouring the internet for the latest Pokemon merchandise, and Peter fell asleep $15 poorer but a giant Ponyta plush richer. Tony couldn't help the fond roll of his eyes at that, case casting to the foot of Peter's bed where a small collection of plush toys lay. Peter had always loved soft things and comfort things. Idly; Tony wondered if he still remembered Tony the teddy, or if that memory was another thing shrouded by age and the unwillingness to think of anything that belonged to the crash. </p><p>Wondered if Peter still remembered the man with the wings that had stood on the pier all those years ago. That had held him close and pulled him from the wreckage of the car. </p><p>Wondered if Norman would be the one that sucks the life from those pretty, whiskey eyes when at lunch on Monday Peter set down his sandwich and turned to Harry. "Hey, I forgot to ask, but what's Project Lilith?" </p><p>Harry's brows furrowed and his chewing slowed, eyes glazing over like a man losing himself in his mind. "Project what? Do you mean Project <em>Lennin</em>?" Project Lennin was nothing but a new data organisation software, no large secret. It had been Oscorp's smallest project of the year, nothing more fascinating than another way to organise information on their systems. He willed Peter to agree, to presume perhaps he'd heard things wrong, even if Tony knew better. Even if he knew Peter well enough to know what would come next. </p><p>"Mm, no. It was Lilith. I've just seen it come up on a load of files recently" the boy hummed, picking out a slice of tomato from his sandwich with disgust. The lunch hall food left a lot to be desired; but Peter had forgotten to pack his own lunch that morning, and so a somewhat slimy salad and ham sandwich was his only option. Harry paused for more pensive thought, then shrugged. </p><p>"Who knows? Dad's never mentioned it. Probably just another dumb software line or something. I'm so sick of software updates". </p><p>"Oscorp isn't involved in weapons, is it?" Peter blurted after a moment, and Tony nearly slid off the end of the bench in surprise, wings spreading out and flapping to keep his balance as he gripped at the table. </p><p>"What?" Harry spluttered, the sound turning to a laugh as he wiped crumbs from his mouth, sandy hair bouncing as he shook his head. "God, no. That's more <em>Stark Industries</em>". He said it with a sneer that Tony tried not to take to heart, eyes narrowing as he watched the duo. "Hell, Pete. Where did you get that idea from?" Peter had the sense to look abashed, cheeks flushing as he shrugged. </p><p>"I don't know. So many companies are going into it lately. And you've heard about the stuff with Afghanistan and that". The mention made Tony flinch, breath cooling in his lungs like liquid nitrogen. It made him think of Hellfire and ash and blood, and no amount of blinking would shake the memory of grey snowfall. Harry looked pitying and nudged the teen, head shaking again. </p><p>"Dad's not into that, Pete. Oscorp will never go into weapons or war. We just make lab stuff and software. Besides, Tony Stark went into weapons and look what happened to him. I'd never let my Dad do that". </p><p>Tony's chest seized uncomfortably, like a heart-attack, raw and open. Peter gave no indication of recognition at the name; eyes glazed as he stared at his food. It felt like being dumped into ice water, a jarring reminder of the fact that Tony had existed here, just like Peter and Harry. That he was a pile of dusty bones or ash somewhere. He yearned sharply and suddenly to know what had happened. Had they ever found him? Had they ever found who'd launched the attack? What had his funeral been like? Had people mourned him or cheered in the streets for the end of the Merchant of Death's reign? </p><p>"Anyway; <em>I</em> get the company when I turn twenty-five, and even if Dad <em>did</em> ever go into weapons before that, I'd stop it". </p><p>Peter gave a low sound of agreement, gaze far off and slack with thought. Tony made a soft sound of his own, sorrow and regret, and draped a wing over the boy's shoulders. He knew, somehow, that Peter had just sealed his own fate. </p><p>
  
</p><p>"Hey, Peter? Mr. Osborne was looking for you. I think he wants you to run some files down to R&amp;D". </p><p>Louise was a cheerful girl, taller than any girl Tony had never seen and a little ungainly, but she was smart and fierce about her position; and Peter liked her well enough. It had been two weeks since Peter had overheard Norman's talk, and in all that time the matter had been dropped and forgotten. Norman had been as stiffly pleasant as any other time, and neither he nor Harry nor Peter had broached Project Lilith or that night again. Still; he could see the uncertainly into Peter's eyes, brief and gone like the ticking by of a single second. The shiver down Tony's spine reflected the boy's trepidation and it was all Tony could do not the scream out for The Guardian as Peter smiled, thanked Louise for the message and headed towards the top floor. </p><p>Norman was standing by the window when Peter entered, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the city. Mutely, Tony stepped closer to Peter, instinct driving him to furl a wing protectively around the trembling teen. "Ah, Mr. Osborne? Louise said you needed me to run some files?" Peter's voice betrayed his nerves; frayed and timid as he fidgeted. Norman turned slowly, a lizard's smile on his lips. It didn't reach his eyes, cool and unwelcoming. </p><p>"Mr. Parker, yes. Just the boy I wanted to see". Norman's voice was soft, flat. The man gestured to the desk and straightened his cufflinks as he turned, sinking into his own large seat. Peter's breath hitched but the boy obeyed, shuffling forwards to sit in the smaller chair that awaited on the other side of the heavy mahogany desk. Tony moved with him, walking around the desk to take a seat on its edge, next to Norman. As Peter shimmied to sit comfortably, the Angel leaned forwards, voice deceptively sweet as he whispered into Norman's ear. </p><p>"Touch him, and I will pull your spine out through your teeth". </p><p>The hair on Norman's arms lifted, gooseflesh breaking out along his neck and the backs of his hands. The older man shuffled, cleared his throat, then cast Peter another lifeless smile. </p><p>"I wanted to talk to you about a rather...<em>Sensitive</em> matter. A matter that requires your devout attention to the next words that leave my lips". Peter stiffened and Tony could feel the seething rage wrap around him like a snake, coiling tight and unforgiving. </p><p>"My son came to me on the weekend. Said you'd been troubled some time ago by presumptions. He mentioned a certain <em>Project Lilith.</em> Mentioned that, perhaps, I'm dabbling in the munitions industry." Norman's voice was cool and void of pleasantries as he stared across the table at Peter, who had gone pale and meek, wide eyes fixed on the man with something akin to terror. Its all Tony can do not to reach out, to sink his hand into Norman's chest and <em>take</em>. Its a power he knows distantly he has; the ability to tilt the balance of life and death. But he knows also its a frugal and bitter thing. A heavy price. One for one; the scale must always be even. </p><p>"I know you were sneaking around that night, Mr. Parker. I know you may think you heard this or that. I know my son adores you; though make no mistake his loyalty lies to me and to Oscorp. If I wished, I could turn him against you. And if I wished, I could make your life rather miserable". Norman's head tilted as he steepled his fingers, eyeing Peter calculatingly. "Forget Project Lilith. Forget whatever you did or didn't hear that night. Make no mention of it again, and I don't see why once you leave school this silly little internship can't become a full time job, hm? Maybe you can be Harry's assistant or we can find you a cosy little spot in public resources. But mention Porject Lilith, or weapons again..."</p><p>The threat hung in the air; a damning confirmation of any of Peter's doubts. </p><p>Norman Osborne was dealing black market weapons. </p><p>"Y--Yes, Mr. Osborne. I'm...Sorry. For making Harry worry. I was mistaken. I heard you say Project Lennin". Peter's voice was feeble and soft and Tony turned his head to look at him, heart squeezing in his chest. He sent a curse to The Guardian; loathed that it had given him this life. Forced him to watch this unfold. Was there nothing he could do? No balance he could tip or sway? No influence he could pull? But no matter how hard he tried he felt as useless as a paper weight, sat between the two as Norman gave Peter a broad, shark-like smile. </p><p>"I knew you weren't just a pleasing face, Mr. Parker. Perhaps my son might've found worth in you yet. Now; leave me". </p><p>Its an order Peter is all too eager to comply with, scrambling from his seat. If not for the pressing concern over his boy, Tony would've stayed. Would've dug through Norman's ugly little skull until he found something that made him tick. Would've given him nightmares for the rest of his life; robbed of any rest. As it was, his devotion to Peter drove him to stand, a solitary sweep of his wings bringing him to the hallway where Peter leant panting against a wall, fingers digging into his thighs. </p><p>"Proof. I have to find proof. I have to make Harry believe me". </p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter says nothing for a month. </p><p>Does nothing for a month; except act like nothing is wrong. Dinner with Aunt May goes on as usual, fighting over whether beef dumplings were better than pork ones or what film they would watch that night. Time spent with Harry encompasses anything from chilling quietly together on the couch to discovering the wonders of ice skating at a pop-up rink in the upper Bronx. Time spent at the internship is a head down, eyes on the ground. It almost, almost lulls Tony into a false sense of security, except he knew his boy better than that. Knew that the nights Peter lay awake staring at the ceiling meant the boy was thinking; planning. </p><p>Whenever Tony tried to glimpse those thoughts he met nothing but blank space. </p><p>Whenever he tried asking The Guardian for help; guidance, he was met with empty silence. </p><p>It infuriated him beyond belief, tension and anxiety ratcheting up until he felt jittery and like a ticking time bomb on the verge of explosion. He dared not leave Peter's side so his late night wandering was forfeit to vigilant watch from Peter's window, to night spent pacing the boy's bedroom as he tried to think of <em>any</em> way, however minuscule he could protect Peter from this. He was briefly thankful he was dead, he constant stress surely would've given him a few grey hairs or made a few feathers fall out, surely. The worry stopped him from meditating, stopped him from enjoying the scenic walks and the calm evenings in with May. All he could think about was <em>whatifwhatifwhatif</em>. </p><p>Harry invites Peter to stay the night four weeks after Norman's threat. </p><p>Peter accepts. </p><p>It ignites something like a bonfire in Tony, who can't sit still for the rest of the following week. All he can imagine is that its some sort of ploy, that maybe Harry does know. Maybe Norman told all. Maybe this is where they threaten Peter together or poison the breakfast eggs or drive him out to some back alley in the middle of nowhere and shoot him. </p><p>Peter says nothing on the ride over. Says nothing out of the ordinary when Harry greets him at the door with pizza boxes and cups of soda. Harry looks no different to any other day, beaming and talking animatedly about this girl he thinks he likes. Tony tried to walk past, to head straight to the office, but the wooden door was shut and no matter what he did, it would not open; nor could he step through. He kicks it, risks making himself temporal just to jiggle the lock. Tries desperately to push through whatever invisible barrier stops him, but all it garners is a light-headedness that makes him feel dizzy.</p><p>Norman doesn't show until late into the night, smiling with feigned warmth at both boys from the doorway. "Try not to stay up too late" he chides them with parental fondness, eyes fixed on the way Peter lowered his head, fingers tightening around his own ankle. Tony bore his teeth at the older man, wings bristling. He got up and marched after the man when he retreated, following down the hallway. Instead of a left Norman made a right, retreating into his bedroom. Tony stayed, determined and patient, but all Norman did was load up an old black and white war film and drink whiskey, sprawled out on the large, empty bed in nothing but a pair of long smalls. Tony lost track of time; eyes boring into where the businessman lay careless and ignorant of his presence. </p><p>Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed; and Tony sighed. Reluctantly he shoved to his feet, stepping out into the hallway to try the lock one more time. The door refused to move, and he retreated to Harry's bedroom with his wings drawn tight to his shoulders, pensive and uneasy. That crawling sick feeling was back; like copper on his tongue. </p><p>He hated it. </p><p>Hated looking down at Peter and knowing immediately that the boy was faking sleep. Peter's breathing was never that forcibly even and he hated sleeping on his back. Harry by contrast was completely unconscious, dead to the world and snoring soundly. </p><p>At four in the morning, Peter opens his eyes. </p><p>"Don't do it" Tony pleaded with him as he watched the boy, crawling across the bed to cup his jaw. "Leave it. Go to sleep. Don't make me watch this". </p><p>Peter rolled to his feet with the silent agility of a jungle cat. Tony spat a curse, wings thrashing hard as he shoved upright and followed. He held onto the pathetic hope that perhaps Peter was just going for the bathroom, unsurprised but still bitter when Peter took a solitary, cautious step to the right. There was nothing he could do but shuffle along as Peter took the steps tentatively, one at a time for what felt like hours. As Peter's small hand reached for the office Tony sucked in a breath, suddenly reminded that the door was locked. Locked. Peter wouldn't be able to get in. He was safe. Maybe there was-</p><p>The door snicked open with a sound so soft it almost wasn't a sound at all. </p><p>His heart lurched. </p><p>"I swear if he gets hurt I'm going to make you regret ever bringing me back" Tony whispered, fear and rage churning in the pit of his stomach. He felt hollow as he took a cautious step, but the barrier maintained. Peter could step through, but he could not. He looked over his shoulder but the hallway was void of light. Norman was sleeping. Trepidation lingered heavy in his heart as he watched Peter turn on his phone flashlight and it wasn't until the cool white light illuminated Norman, sat in the chair, that Tony realised he hadn't sensed the man's presence at all. </p><p>"Oh, Peter" the older man sighed, hand raising from where it lay on his thigh. Peter let out a harsh sound at the same time as Tony registered the round gleam of a gun barrel. He gave a yell, surging forwards but hitting the invisible hold like a brick wall. "Close the door, please". </p><p>"Don't you <em>dare</em>! Don't close the door! <em>Peter</em>, don't do it! <em>Don't</em>-"</p><p>Timidly, Peter pushed the heavy oak shut. </p><p>
  
</p><p>"I'd so <em>hoped</em> you were smart enough to let this go". </p><p>"You can't shoot me. You can't - I'm not doing anything. Were in the middle of the city. People will hear it. Harry is right down the hall!"</p><p>"You should have let it go, Peter. I'll tell them you went rifling through my office. That you must've found my gun. You must've been messing around. I woke up to the bang, don't you know? I'll get a slap on the wrist for not securing a firearm but in the end...I have the network and the money to smooth this over in time. I'll get Harry a good therapist. Hell; I'm a good man. I'll even pay your little Aunt a nice slip as compensation. She'll be set for many long years". </p><p>"Mr. Osborne, <em>please</em>-"</p><p>
  
</p><p>Tony feels nothing but white, pure rage. </p><p>The flap of his wings is a hurricane force that rattled the paintings on the wall in the hallway. White light bleeds at the edges of his vision. He'll never be able to say for sure what broke the barrier - If it was orchestrated to keep him at bay until that particular moment or if the sheer force of his anger and fear obliterated it. All he knew was the taste of ash on his tongue and the white heat of vengeance as he surged forwards, through the oak and power. He felt alight and not really alive, like something neither here nor there. The air felt charged and static and the room was no more than a blur, the ringing bang of a gunshot like unbearable thunder in his ears.</p><p>All he could think of was Peter. </p><p>
  
</p><p>The wings sweep into existence like a storm, shaking the room and knocking the desk into the wall. </p><p>They're so blue they're black, ethereal and multi-dimensional, sweeping forwards to curl around the teen in a blockade, feathers interlocking and flickering into sight. The bullet crumpled against the sheen of the feathers, folding in on itself and dropping to the floor like a pebble thrown at a brick wall. </p><p>Norman's lips part, skin pallid and grey. The wings are unlike anything else, mammoth and glowing softly in the darkness. Shock loosened the grip of his fingers, the gun falling with a thud to the carpet below. </p><p>The wings part like a stage curtain, slow and deliberate. </p><p>Wrath smiles at him, all teeth and the promise of death. </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>"What the fuck?!"</em>
</p><p>Norman's voice is background; inconsequential to the way Peter stares up at him, recognition mingling with terror. Tony didn't know what he looked like in that moment but he didn't want to know, losing himself in the way those beautiful eyes were flecked with gold. "You" Peter breathed, voice scratchy and thin. Tony could feel his eyes sting as he offered the softest, smallest of smiles. Peter was limp in his grasp, paralysed in fear. Tony longed to kiss it from him but he let the boy go slowly, withdrawing as he stood to his full height, gaze lifting to the man before them. Peter sank to his knees and scrabbled on the carpet, back and out of reach as Tony's wings drew back, stretching out at his sides. </p><p>He breathed. Blinked. Looked at Norman through a hundred eyes and a thousand teeth. Six wings stretched out at his sides, golden light spilling into the room so harshly that Peter shied away, hiding his face behind his arm. It felt...No different, almost. He supposed it was because this is what he had <em>always</em> been. The body of a man with the face of his old life had been a mirage; a veil of his own comfort and familiarity. It feels no more wrong or no more right to embrace it now. </p><p>Wetness spreads across the inside of Norman's leg. </p><p>Between one blink and the next the Guardian Angel stands before him, blank face tilting, smiling with a mouth of too many too sharp teeth. </p><p>Its so easy to reach into his chest. The heart within crumples like a crisp fall leaf, fading to so much ash in his chest. </p><p>The hardest thing is turning around. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Norman Osborne's heart attack makes the front page news. </p><p>The Guardian hands him the newspaper wordlessly. The waters of The Empty are cool and clear around his ankles. </p><p>Reality is a funny thing. Easily warped; easily twisted. </p><p>There was no gunshot. There was no explosion. That reality exists only for the three of them; Peter, Tony and The Guardian. </p><p>To the rest of the world Peter Parker awoke in the early hours of the morning and in his sleepy haze turned right instead of left. Instead of opening the door to a bathroom, he opened the door to Harry Osborne dead on the floor of his office, the room pristine and incriminating files on Project Lilith open for all to see on the laptop. </p><p>The investigation lasted several months. Oscorp and several third-party organisations are incriminated and damned in the process. Peter Parker stands at every call to witness, glazed eyed and voice monotone as he repeats <em>I found him like that. I was looking for the bathroom. I didn't see anything else. </em>A month after the investigation closes, Harry Osborne moved to London, name cleared of being involved but still drowning in the shame of his father's deeds. </p><p>"Does he remember?" </p><p>
  <em>Do you want him to?</em>
</p><p>It feels like a trick question. Like a trap. </p><p>
  <em>His purpose is done. </em>
</p><p>Why did they have to die for this? </p><p>"Can I go back to him?"</p><p>Six faces tilt consideringly.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Peter Parker is eighteen. </p><p>His eyes are still the same, soft honey. His skin is still creamy-pale despite the humid New York summer and his hair is still a mess of chocolate waves and ringlets. It feels surreal, to know a year has passed in what felt like five minutes; his heels still phantom-cool from the waters of The Empty. Tony wondered what he'd missed. Was Peter traumatised? Did he remember? Did he have friends now? A job, a partner, a-</p><p>"I wish I knew if it was real". The boy hangs over the edge of the dock, comfortable on his stomach, staring into his reflection. "I wish...It <em>feels</em> real. I know I dream it. I know its <em>supposed</em> to be a dream. He had a gun". </p><p>"There was a man, before. I think it was a dream, too. He was watching the ocean and he had wings". </p><p>"I asked Harry once, if he thought someone was watching us. Some<em>thing</em>...I think there is". </p><p>"I think you're real". </p><p>"Show me if you're real. Show me if you're here". </p><p>Black wings tinged like tanzanite unfurl from behind his reflection, spreading out slowly. They glitter like precious stones in the sun, stretching out as though from his own shoulders. Between one ripple of the water and the next they're gone like a whisper spoken into a storm. </p><p>
  <em>I've always been here. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I always will. </em>
</p>
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